“Mr. Lassiter sick,” the voice said. “Doctor coming soon.”
“Did he leave any message if I called?” Ho asked.
“Hold on,” the voice said.
Ho waited a few minutes, then a croaking voice came on the line.
“Sorry, old bean,” the voice sputtered, “I’ve taken ill. A Mr. Samuelson from our main office was in town. He’ll keep the appointment as scheduled.”
Lassiter didn’t sound anything like himself, Ho thought. Whatever he’d caught sounded serious. “He’s here now,” Ho said.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Ho,” the voice said, hacking, “he’s very knowledgeable, an expert on ancient Asian art.”
“I hope you feel better soon,” Ho said.
The sound of a phlegmy coughing fit erupted that lasted for almost a minute.
“Me, too,” the voice said, “and I hope I can view the Golden Buddha very soon.”
Ho hung up the telephone and rose to walk downstairs.
On the
“For a chef,” he said quietly, “you make a hell of a spy.”
17
WINSTON Spenser was not wired for a life of crime and deceit. At this instant, he was vomiting into the toilet in his hotel room. Someone might argue it was all the booze from the night before, but in fact it was the tension that was ripping his guts apart. The tension that comes from living a lie, from being wrapped in deceit, from doing what one knows is wrong. By now there was nothing but bile rising—any food he had ingested was long gone, any liquor left was in his pores.
Spenser reached up, grabbed a hand towel, then wiped the corners of his mouth.
Rising from the floor, he stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his skin pallor a ghastly gray. The tension he was feeling was revealed by the muscles in his face. They twitched and popped like a kernel of popcorn in a sizzling pan. He reached up to dab a tear from the corner of his left eye, but his hand was shaking. He supported one hand with the other and finished the task. Then he climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear.
RICHARD Truitt stood in the living room, waiting. He stared around the room and tried to form a picture of his target. If Truitt was to guess, he figured the man who resided here was self-made and had only recently become affluent. He based this judgment on the furnishings and general decor. The pieces in the room were expensive enough, they just had no soul. And they were arranged in a fashion favoring flash over comfort. The possessions of old money always contained a story—the story Truitt was seeing was of objects bought in bulk to fill a space and give a picture of the occupant that was neither real nor imaginative.
There was a stuffed lion, but Truitt doubted the owner had stalked and shot the animal himself. A few paintings from contemporary artists like Picasso, but the paintings were far from the artists’ best works. Truitt imagined they had been bought for image value. Guests without foundation or substance would be rightly impressed. An ancient coat of armor that to Truitt’s eye appeared to be a reproduction…a French Louis XVI–style couch that looked about as comfortable to sit on as a bed of nails.
“Mr. Samuelson,” a voice said from the staircase.
Truitt turned to see who was speaking.
The man was small. Five and a half feet tall and slight of build. His hair was jet black and styled like a 1970s California hustler. The mouth was small, with teeth that held a certain feral rage. Although Truitt imagined the man was smiling to be friendly, the effect from his grin made Truitt want to reach for his wallet to see if it was safe.
“I’m Stanley Ho,” the man said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and extending his hand.
The stage was set and Truitt became the actor.
“Paul Samuelson,” he said, extending a slightly limp wrist for a handshake. “The home office asked me to take over for Mr. Lassiter, who has unfortunately been stricken with a bug.”
Truitt’s version of Samuelson was coming across as a light-in-the-loafers Michael Caine.
“I trust you’re familiar with this type of sculpture?”
“Oh, yes,” Truitt gushed. “I did graduate studies in Asian art. It’s one of my favorite forms.”
Ho motioned to the stairs, then led the way up. “The object is known as the Golden Buddha. Are you in any way familiar with the piece?”
They rounded the first leg of the stairs and crossed the landing to the second flight.
“I’m afraid not,” Truitt said breathlessly. “Has it ever been displayed?”
“No,” Ho said quickly. “It has been part of a private collection for decades.”
“Then I shall examine it with an eye for comparison to the other pieces I am familiar with.”
They had exited the second flight and were winding their way around to the last set of stairs.
“You have a beautiful home,” Truitt lied. “The staircases are mahogany, are they not?”
“Yes,” Ho said, pausing at the door to his office to scan a card that unlocked the door. “From Brazil and hand fitted without nails or screws.”
